


Michelle ma Belle

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3896005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OK I can't find the actual quote anywhere but it's based sometime in their earlier days where Paul and George would sit in clubs with black turtle-neck sweaters and the like with their guitars muttering nonsense to each other to get girls. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Michelle ma Belle

**Author's Note:**

> If this was real ... If this was real. In. My. Dreams :D

The club is smoky, the music pounding, the girls hot, the competition fierce, the light dark and smoky and the fog stifling. John, Stu and Pete have all got birds, and are flaunting them shamelessly, each bopping to the sound of Rory and the Hurricanes and each gloating as much as humanely possible to me and my fellow bandmate at our lack of company tonight, and our being on our own. It’s weird, I think, as we sit and watch the boys chatting and drinking and making complete fools of themselves whist still looking vaguely attractive, that my fellow partner-less bandmate is, well, partner-less. Normally said bandmate is the first to snag a catch, if you like, and I know full well that if he really wanted to, he could persuade any of these girls to go to bed with him, which would naturally be the prime ambition, though he’s not moving, just surveying our surroundings with a smile and a drink. I turn to him.   
‘Paul?’  
He tilts his head to look at me, and I can see that his eyes are wide and questioning, whilst his quiffy hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat produced by the cloying heat of the club, though the smile is still on his face. It’s at times like this that I can almost see why he’s the first to go, on an ‘on’ night. But almost, though, because I’m not queer. However attractive he – or anyone else, for that matter – may be.   
‘I need a bird.’  
It comes out of nowhere, probably as a result of my … questionable thoughts, just trying to convince myself of the fact that I’m not actually … that I don’t in fact think like that, that I’m not like that, that I don’t feel like that towards him, however – GOD! That I don’t feel like that towards him, full stop. He grins.   
‘Georgie needs a bird.’ I scowl at him. ‘And he needs Paulie to help him do so.’ I scowl harder. He giggles. And it is a giggle, not a vaguely effeminate laugh; it’s a giggle.   
‘C’mon then, we’re gonna speak French.’  
I blink. ‘What?’  
‘Well, me mam used to say that birds dig guys who can speak French, cos it’s attractive, right?’ Apparently he can see my cynical face through the dark and the smog so he back tracks slightly. ‘Well, it’s sort of smooth and flowing, and in all those Bardot movies, the girls have French accents, don’t they?’ I nod. ‘S’sexier than German, anyroad,’ he grins, edging closer to me on the seat. I just stare and try not to flinch now that his legs are touching mine.   
‘Paul,’ I scooch backwards slightly at the uncomfortably close proximity, only for him to move further forwards once more. ‘They have to think we’re attractive, not queer.’   
I swear he blushes. I swear. ‘Yeah, but French guys are kinda … touchy-feely, aren’t they?’   
I frown. Shake my head, then nod. ‘Paul?’   
‘Yes?’  
And now I’ve realised the flaw. ‘I don’t know any French.’  
He pauses, then shrugs. ‘Me neither. It’s okay. We can just make it up.’ He must be able to see me, because he does an example. ‘Like this: bonjouurrr.’  
And it’s all purry and soft and French that I can’t help but gulp and grin at the same time, and slide slightly nearer to him, because if I’m going to do this to get a girl, mind you, but still I’m sure as hell going to do it properly. That’s all I can do.  
‘Pourshois, Jorge, et lescalpons, oui?’   
I can’t help but laugh at the odd combinations of words that come out of his mouth, and he shushes me. ‘George, if you want to get ze girl, you’re going to hev to do zis proberly, oui?’   
I nod, trying to contain my giggles at his … interesting French accent, and begin. ‘D’accord, Paulie, et compatienent, ponquais?’  
He grins. ‘Oui, Jorge! Vous obtenez ce! You’re getting it.’ He adds, at my blank expression.  
‘Oh, oui, oui, monseuir, merci! Et tu, Paul! Et tu!’  
‘Et toi,’ he corrects, waggling a finger at me in a way which almost makes me sigh, so I roll my eyes instead and smile.   
‘Oui, merci. Oui.’   
Paul grimaces. ‘You hev to expand, George,’ he scolds, frowning at me and speaking in that insufferable accent. Grinning, he says it again. ‘ExPAND!’ And he flaps his arms out, like he really is a gesticulating French man, before hurriedly apologising to the bird next to him for knocking her hat off. ‘Oh, pardon, madame, pardon! Je suis toujours si jamais désolé; juste obtenu un peu excité est tout, pardon. Le shame! Le shame!’ And he continues to flap until she stalks away, handbag clutched in her arm, hat now firmly back on her head and an expression of extreme disgust on her face.  
I just stare at Paul who is now still and silent and waiting expectantly for my reply. I can’t say anything for a moment, until I force out – ‘you can speak French!’ And cross my arms, slightly like a petulant child, if I think about it.   
He laughs. ‘French, George, God! Oh – mon dieu! Sorry.’ A grin. ‘Can you guess what I said?’  
I shake my head no. Just to give him another chance to show off.  
‘Oh sorry, madame sorry!’ And now he’s patting his hands all over me like a flustered first year who’s just knocked over the school bully and embarrassed him in front of the school. ‘I'm ever so ever so sorry; just got a bit excited is all, sorry! The shame! The shame!’ He stops patting and grins at me. ‘We did it in French out of a play and it’s the only thing I remember.’  
‘Why, Paul?’ I’m tired already. God, I need a drink. His talking wears me out.   
‘Well …’ And I’m not sure whether the blush on his cheeks is fake or not, but I’m guessing it had something to do with a hot bird and a French accent.   
I nod, sigh. ‘Right. I’m getting a drink. Want one?’  
He jumps up. ‘Oui, oui, monseuir! And French, remember?’   
I raise my eyebrows. ‘I don’t actually think you need one, Paul.’  
He punches me lightly on the arm, grinning. ‘Come ‘ead.’   
Upon arriving at the bar, I’m about to ask for two beers, but Paul steps in. ‘Ah, bonjour, sir.’ The barman looks vaguely confused, but nods anyway. ‘Uh, deux verres de vin, s’il vous plait?’   
I’m pretty sure my eyes are bugging out, as I turn to stare at Paul who looks back at me apologetically. ‘It’s the only think I know how to say,’ he mouths at me and I growl. Stupid French. What a twit. Anyway, the barman comes back with two glasses of wine which look very out of place in this club surrounded by whiskeys and vodkas and beers and cocktails, and we go back to our seat, with me glaring at Paul and Paul wincing at the gross wine. I sigh again. It’s going to be a long night.

oOo

We’ve got a graveyard of wine glasses surrounding us, courtesy of Paul’s ‘limited’ French, which he can now use to perfection. In fact, after about a pint, he was able to speak practically fluent to me; he isn’t making it up any more, I can tell; he’s saying it with expression, and it’s all I can do to choke out an amused oui, or gulp some garbled phrases back to him, watch him smile and continue talking to me like we’re both French.   
I blink, and attempt to listen. ‘George, pouvez-vous me comprendre? Dire l'amour si vous me comprenez , George. Dire l'amour?’ He watches me for a second, then continues. ‘Non? Non? D'accord. Droite, ainsi Georgie: c’est ma confession . Vous … vous êtes beau. Vous êtes incroyable. Et ... et je ... j’aime vraiment vous . Beaucoup, George. Beaucoup. La fin. Finis. Terminé.’ And then he’s sighing and getting up and I’m confused and weirded out, and I have no idea what he just said and what I’m meant to do or say back and he’s purring out the first phrase I’ve perfectly understood all night, and now he’s gone. ‘Bon nuit, George.’ Good night.

oOo

It’s 1965, and Paul is sitting on the setee strumming at his acoustic, mumbling something weird. I sigh and glance over at Ringo who shakes his head and raises his eyebrows, signalling that he doesn’t know what Paul’s doing either, and I sigh.  
‘How does this sound lads?’   
His voice makes me jump and I look up and at him, probably wide-eyed and looking like a rabbit caught in headlights. He doesn’t seem to care though, launching right into his song.  
‘Michelle, ma belle, these are words that go together well. Michelle, ma belle, sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble. And I haven’t got the middle eight yet, but Jy said he’d help me with that.’ He pauses, looks up. ‘D’you think it’s ok?’  
I roll my eyes. ‘You know perfectly well it’s “ok” Paul.’   
He grins. ‘It’s French Ge. French.’   
I nod. ‘I know.’ Duh.  
‘What’s it mean?’ asks Ringo from the corner.  
Paul frowns. ‘Uh … michelle, my beautiful, these are words that go together well. Michelle, my beautiful, these are words that go together well, michelle my beautiful. I think. Like I say, French.’ He looks pointedly at me.   
And then it all comes flooding back.  
‘Oh!’  
It’s been about 4 years since then, and I’d forgotten, and now, now I remember, all those garbled sentences, fluid phrases, all the misunderstanding of that night. Paul grins at me.   
‘What did all that actually mean?’  
He shrugs. ‘Go look it up.’   
I frown. ‘I don’t remember any of it. Just that you’re a massive, massive liar, and you’re amazing at French.’  
‘Don’t boost his ego even more,’ Ringo whined from his corner, looking up to stare at me with puppy dog eyes.  
‘It’s true,’ Paul grins. ‘I am amazing at most things. Could you understand none of it?’   
I shake my head no.  
‘Well then, it can stay that way.’  
And he gets up and leaves.


End file.
